


Frozen

by Xazz



Series: A Cold Heart [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M, Magic, Necromancy, Undead, Witchcraft, Wizards, sword and sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:57:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xazz/pseuds/Xazz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altair is a master necromancer who raises the dead loved ones of the rich to pay the bills. Incredibly skilled he always raises someone the first time and always hits his target the first time. Except the time he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frozen

It wasn’t always an exact science; necromancy that was. Even a master of the dead, dying and undying, such as Altair couldn’t make such an inexact science exact. And he had tried. But there was so much guess work in necromancy because there was no real formula to raise the dearly departed. Sure there were ideas and steps you could take but there was no one way. A master like Altair usually hit his mark though, he was good at filling in the blanks of the formula and the guess work needed for necromancy. Which was why he was the best.

Except sometimes he missed.

Altair scowled at his seal, laid out on the ground he’d drawn carefully in a brightly colored salt used in embalming. Normally the salt was white but when infused with power it glowed a soft, toxic, blue. Then he scowled at the girl in the middle of his seal. She was still dead. How the hell had he missed? She was literally three feet in front of him! Necromancy was more difficult at a distance but his target was literally under his nose. He still didn’t know how he missed.

But that left something else to ponder.

“Ah  _shit_ ,” Altair quickly got to his feet. If his necromancy had missed his target that meant it’d hit someone else. Necromancy preferred the recently dead over the old dead, like this dumb girl. Meaning someone had just died as he performed his ritual; meaning someone who was supposed to be dead was currently walking around when they shouldn’t be. He grabbed his coat as he ran out the door, at least having enough sense to remember to lock the door behind him. Heaven forbid if someone found what he’d been doing in there; he’d be hanged.

—

Desmond gasped like he’d just come up from holding his breath under water. His chest spasmed and he coughed, his body arching as he did so, every muscle and fiber of his body exploding in delight in being able to move again. Then the feeling passed and he slowly regained his breath and sat up. He was in what felt like a root cellar, the air cool and clammy against his skin, a thin, white, sheet had been pulled up to his neck but when he sat up it fell away and he looked down.

It took every ounce of will he had to not scream.

He fell off the table, gasping anew and pressed his hand up to his chest and felt the sharp pain of heavy stitches under his fingers. He’d been cut open groin to sternum and then in a Y under his collar bone and then stitched back up. He stared wide eyed at himself and touched the stitches more gently, they were still tender. Then he felt the rest of his body, he felt whole. In fact, he felt rather great.

He looked up and realized he wasn’t in a root cellar, he was in a morgue, the lights out, and he’d been on a gurney, the white sheet a death shroud. He’d been dead.

He doubled over as the memory, the only one other than his name, suddenly bombarded him grabbing the edge of the gurney to keep himself from falling. He’d been accused of witchcraft and laying a curse down on his neighbor. He’d been convicted and sentenced to hang. Desmond felt the sick sensation of hanging by his neck as he’d slowly suffocated on his own weight. Whoever had hung him hadn’t been good at it and instead of snapping his neck he’d hung there for a few minutes, slowly dying of suffocation. He reached his hand up to his throat and gagged when he felt the ridges of the rope mark still in his neck. But he had nothing in his stomach, he didn’t throw up.

There was one thing he knew though. He had to get out of of here. He grabbed the shroud and wrapped it around his waist and went upstairs. The mortician was closed for the  day, all the oil lamps snuffed out, the curtains drawn closed. He stumbled a bit as he walked, clearly he hadn’t walked in a while. It couldn’t have been long since his death. It had been a Tuesday and it had been sunny out, though the clouds had promised snow. He didn’t know how long he’d been dead, or why he was alive now. All he knew was he needed some clothes and he needed to get out of here.

—

Altair looked up at an oil lamp and studied the flame. Before he’d taken up necromancy to help pay the bills (all manner of people wanted their loved ones back, and were willing to overlook witchcraft to do so) he’d been a normal wizard. Or as normal as a wizard could be. This flame was one of hundreds of flames all across the city, and they were like tiny eyes. So long as the lamps were connected to the oil line that ran through the city Altair would be able to see through them.

“There you are,” Altair said softly as he looked through a hundred fire-eyes and narrowed it to just one as a man stumbled out of a mortuary. He was wearing clothes that didn’t fit and seemed very lost. Altair looked for the nearest cross street and headed for it. You couldn’t let a newly waken person just wander around without a guide, that would just be irresponsible.

He found the man, boy really, barely looked old enough to grow his own facial hair, (maybe he was being a bit harsh in that though since everyone was a child to Altair) a few blocks from the mortuary. The cold wasn’t kind to the undead, it made moving difficult. The undead needed warmth to move since they couldn’t warm themselves and in truth didn’t even have a pulse, though their body still went through the motion of breathing since it was the only living function they still required. Magic ran in their veins to replace blood and though their heart didn’t pump their brain still functioned though they’d lose higher brain functions if something happened so they couldn’t breathe.

“Are you lost?” Altair asked and the boy spun in an uncoordinated flail, Altair chuckled as they kicked up a bit of snow. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, though Altair doubt he felt the true bite of the snow. The undead had stunted feeling in their skin. It was always hard to reawaken nerve cells after they went dead.

“Ah… no,” they said and they seemed to be very concerned with the fact that their coat was too small and couldn’t cover their neck. Altair could see a blemish around his throat, throat cut maybe?.

“I think you are,” Altair said and put his fingers under the kid’s chin, making them look at Altair, “What’s your name?”

“Desmond,” they swallowed.

Altair cocked his head to the side and pushed Desmond’s head to the side. It was well done if he did say so himself. Of course it was though, Altair had been the wizard behind his waking. Any wizard or witch who saw how clear Desmond’s eyes were, or how life-like and flushed his skin was, like blood truly pumped through it, would know a master had raised him. There were few necromancers of Altair’s caliber, especially in this damned country. “Do you remember how you died Desmond?”

Desmond froze, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Desmond swallowed.

Altair sighed, “ _Tell me_ ,” he said, imbuing his voice with magic and authority.

“They hanged me for witchcraft,” Desmond obeyed, because he had to obey. One could not disobey who raised them.

“Hmm,” Altair said and took his hand off Desmond, “Come with me, we’re going home.”

“What?” Desmond asked, staring after Altair.

“You heard me,” he motioned over his shoulder, “ _come_.” Desmond hesitated, no doubt trying to resist, but like Altair knew he would, he followed after.

—

Desmond was taken to a strange house he’d never been to by a strange man he’d likewise never met in his life. Could he still say that? Inside it smelled horribly and Desmond gagged. “Oh don’t be so dramatic,” the man said and hung his coat up. He waved his head, “there,” and when Desmond breathed again the smell was gone. “Now sit,” and Desmond sat in a chair. “Let me look at you,” and before Desmond knew what was happening the man took his head in his hands and started to move his head all around. Honestly it was more like he was examining a horse he wanted to purchase, looking at his eyes and teeth and looking at him from several angles. He was so surprised he didn’t even think to bat the man’s hands away.

“Who are you?” Desmond asked, only once the man had let him go.

“My name is Altair,” he said and wiped his hands on his heavy pants.

“Who are you?”

Altair frowned at him, “Is your hearing going?”

“No, no- I mean… what are you? I guess.”

“Ah, now that is the better question. I’m a wizard,” and Desmond’s mouth dropped open, “more specifically; I’m a necromancer. I rose you.”

“You what?” he squeaked.

“I rose you from the dead. Quite by accident I might add,” Altair made a face, “You weren’t my intended target,” he sighed like Desmond was such a hardship.

“So I… I’m dead?”

“Were dead,” Altair said, “you are now undead,” he said it very specifically. Then he sighed again and folded his arms, “What am I going to do with you?” he more so asked himself than he asked Desmond.

“W-what are you going to do with me?” he had the same question.

“Don’t repeat my questions Desmond, very rude,” Altair made a hand motion and Desmond found his mouth snapping shut. He found he couldn’t open it again and he glared down at his mouth as best he could. “You have any family?” Altair asked after a few moments, Desmond shook his head. Though he didn’t remember. The only memory he had was his name and how he died. Even so he just felt like he didn’t have family, like they were all gone. “Sweetheart? Wife?” he shook his head again. But what if he did? He didn’t feel like he did though. Altair frowned, “Well, you are in quite a state.” Desmond tried to speak but it just came out as noises behind a closed mouth, “Excuse me?” Desmond tried again, still just noises. “Oh right.” Altair waved his hand again.

“How did you do that?” Desmond said.

“I told you, I’m a wizard.”

Desmond blinked at him, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell?”

“Tell what?”

“Tell the authorities you’re a wizard?”

“You won’t,” Altair didn’t seem concerned by Desmond’s idle threat. Was it an idle threat? Maybe a little. He was still more than a little freaked out by this.

“What makes you so sure?”

“One, you’re mine,” and the way he said it made Desmond shiver, “Two, you’re dead and tried for witchcraft. If you came back from the dead that means you really are a witch and they won’t make the same mistake twice; they’ll burn you at the stake. Now lets get over your dumb ideas about tattling on me. If you did I’d know and I’d just kill you again and when a necromancer kills there is no coming back,” he said seriously. “Do you understand?”

Desmond swallowed, “Yes, sir.”

“Good, now get up, if I’m going to have a miss might as well put you to good use,” and Altair turned around, Desmond followed him because he didn’t know what else to do honestly.

“What are we doing?” Desmond asked carefully.

“Cleaning this mess up so I can start over,” Altair said, opening a door to the basement, Desmond followed him down and nearly gagged again. Down here the air was putrid, thick and oppressive. In the middle of the room was a pentagram made of some white powder and at the center was a girl, maybe six years old, her head was caved in and she seemed to be missing half her face.

“You can’t be serious!” Desmond cried.

Altair looked up at him from the bottom of the stairs, “Absolutely not,” he said, “Now get down here, I need you to move the body.”

“I won’t,” Desmond said.

Altair sighed, “Desmond,” and Desmond felt a spike of dread go down his back when Altair said his name, it was the same feeling he got before he’d blurted out why he’d been killed or when Altair told him to follow him back in the street. “Come down here,” and Desmond did so, though he didn’t know why he was, he didn’t want to. “Pick the girl up,” Altair ordered and Desmond frowned at him but went and did. The girl was feather light. “There we go, that wasn’t so hard was it? Now go put her on the gurney while I clean this up,” Altair said and Desmond was compelled to do so and laid the dead girl on the gurney gently.

When he turned back around Altair was standing in the center of the pentagram, arms stretched out a bit at his side, fingers spread and he breathed in, as he did the powder started to glow bright, light, blue, and it started to smoke the light. Or more the light started to twist like a newly snuffed candle. Desmond starred as the smoke rose and touched Altair’s fingers, rising no further than that and Desmond’s mouth opened a bit as light smoke was sucked into his fingers. Altair sighed out once the light had died, then he made a sweeping motion and all the powder collected into a central pile.

“Desmond,” Altair said and he didn’t feel the dread, “go get the broom and clean this up, throw it away,” Desmond didn’t move. “Desmond,” the dread was back, like an icy finger at the base of his spine, Altair looked at him sharply, “Do as I say,” Desmond swallowed and went to find the broom. Altair went to one of the tables against the wall and opened a large book and started to go through it. At the very least the basement wasn’t so oppressive.

“What do you want me to do with it?” Desmond asked, standing next to Altair with all the powder in a dustpan, broom in his other hand.

Altair only glanced at him, “I told you throw it out.”

“Where?”

“Outside. There’s a fire pit in the back,” Altair was looking at his book again, Desmond didn’t understand what it said, he had a feeling he’d been able to read at one point but he couldn’t remember how. Desmond didn’t move, Altair looked at him, “Did you not hear me?”

“How do you do that?” Desmond asked.

“Do what?”

“Make me do something I don’t want to do.”

“Compulsion,” Altair said, “those who are raised must obey their sire. Now I really don’t want to have to use it on you as often as you’ve made me in the last ten minutes so just do what I say the first time.”

“That isn’t very fair,” Desmond said.

Altair snorted, “I’m a necromancer, you think I want to hear from someone newly risen from the dead about fair? I gave you a second life. You’re not dead on the street where I found you because I will it, because you’re the one accident I’ve had in fifty years and I want to see what happens when I let a miss live. You’re dead Desmond and the only reason you’re up and walking around is because of me. If you’re the sort to believe the drabble; I am going against God’s will. So what does that make me to you?” Desmond had no answer, “God. Now, go throw that out,” he pointed at the dustpan, “don’t make me ask again,” and he turned away from Desmond, back to his book. Desmond stayed there another two seconds before going back upstairs to find the firepit Altair had told him about.

—

Altair walked into the dress shop with Desmond in tow. He seemed uncomfortable to be in here surrounded by so much lace and frills and girly clothes. Desmond was leading Maria by the hand and the six year old seemed excited to be in the dress shop. The second ceremony had gone off without a hitch and Altair had been there when Maria had woken, her head once again whole. Her father, a baron from the country, had wanted his little girl back after a horse had kicked her in the skull, killing her. Altair was impressed with himself on this one, since regrowing a brain was incredibly difficult, but Maria acted like a normal six year old.

The tailor greeted him warmly, “How can I help you?” he asked.

“I’d like to buy a new dress for my niece,” Altair said pleasantly, “it’s her birthday,” Maria started to wiggle excitedly. Desmond just tried to not touch the high collar of his shirt that hid the ugly rope marks that circled his neck.

“Of course, of course,” the tailor said and Desmond let Maria’s hand go so the tailor could measure her.

“Any one she wants,” Altair said, not that he was paying for it, his father would be. Altair worked on a half up front half when the individual was delivered policy. Altair would just add the cost of the dress onto her father’s bill.

“Really?” Maria asked excitedly.

“Yes,” Altair smiled at her. “We’ll be sitting over here,” and he grabbed Desmond’s elbow and led him to a sitting area. Desmond still moved stiffly in the cold, Maria moved a bit easier since she was so small and so young, her joints and cartilage were softer than Desmond’s.

“Why do you do this?” Desmond asked as Maria stood on a little pedestal so the tailor could measure her.

“Do what?”

“What’s the point of buying her a dress?”

“I provide a product Desmond,” Altair said. “Her father wanted her alive and well, so that is what I’m giving him.”

Desmond looked at him, “Don’t you feel bad about it?”

“About what?”

“What you do?”

Altair laughed, “I’m too old and been doing this too long to care what a bunch of normal people think of me.” Desmond stared at him, “What?”

“How old are you?”

Altair chuckled, “That, boy, will continue to be a mystery,” and he patted Desmond’s knee. Altair though was old. Wizards and witches lived longer, magic itself seeping into their skin and bones and bodies, elongating their life. Necromancers were noticeably longer lived than most wizards, when you learned to harness the power of reanimation you eventually learned how to greatly extend life as well. Altair had been around during the fall of the last line of kings. That had been almost a hundred years ago, and he’d been no young man when that had happened.

Desmond frowned at him, “Why?”

“Because I said so,” and Desmond scowled at him. In the past week though he’d learned not to question Altair though, which was good.

The two of them watched Maria pick out a dress she wanted and all the things she wanted to go on it like bows and lace. Altair only stepped in once when she wanted a purple dress. No need to piss her father off, since purple was more expensive than other hues. No purple. So she got a purple ribbon instead. Once she’d picked out her dress Altair paid the tailor half the amount of the dress, he’d get billed for the rest. The tailor said it would be done by the end of the week. Then they left, Maria grabbed Desmond’s hand as they left the tailor, as Altair had instructed Maria to always hold Desmond’s hand when she left the house and if Desmond wasn’t with them she couldn’t come.

“Altair,” Desmond said.

“Hmmm?” it was snowing lightly as they walked back home.

“What are you going to do with her?”

Altair looked at Maria, then at Desmond like he was an idiot, “Return her to her father of course. I do want to get paid and I need to deliver her in person to receive that.”

Desmond frowned, “And what will I do while you’re gone?”

“Well I could just order you to sit in a corner while I’m gone and you’d be fine,” Desmond scowled at him, “but I thought it’d be more entertaining if you came along,” he smiled and Desmond didn’t quite know what to do with his face.

—

Desmond was in the driver’s seat of the little coach. Altair and Maria were inside and it was snowing. He hated the fucking snow. He’d liked it while alive but now that he was undead he hated it. It made moving hard and made his joints ache like they were on fire. Even his warm coat didn’t help as he sat hunched over, miserable, leading the horses down the road which was slowly starting to become lost in the snow.

Twenty minutes later he had to stop. Altair stuck his head out of the coach, “What’s the holdup?” he called.

“I can’t see the road,” Desmond said. The door of the coach opened and Desmond heard Altair get out and then close the door again. A moment later Altair climbed up next to him. Altair looked up with a frown. “Something wrong?”

“I am not the weather magus I once was apparently,” Altair said and looked back down. “No matter,” and he said some arcane word Desmond didn’t know and a light appeared above the horse’s head. “There, that should do it,” he said.

“What is it?”

“It will stay center with the road, just keep it above their head and you’re going the right way.”

“Okay,” and Desmond flicked the reins, the horse started off again before Altair could get down. Desmond was not so secretly pleased. If he had to suffer the cold why shouldn’t his master? Funny that, Desmond thought of Altair as his master. Altair didn’t yell though, didn’t even scold him.

“It’s cold out,” was all Altair said and to Desmond’s great relief a pocket of warmth blossomed from Altair to envelope both of them. It made driving easier.

The snow petered out eventually as he drove but the sun never came out, the sky just turned a dirty orange color as the sun set and they stopped for Altair to eat. Desmond and Maria didn’t need to. To Desmond’s surprise Altair got back into the driver’s seat with him after dinner to offer the bubble of warmth he’d created. They talked some but mostly were just quiet and Desmond got a surprise when Altair fell asleep on him, cheek finding Desmond’s shoulder.

He stopped the carriage and got off the driver’s seat, reaching up to take Altair off it as well. Maria saw him through the window and opened the door for him. He managed to maneuver Altair into the carriage without bumping him into anything and sat him on the seat.

“Is he okay?” Maria asked. Like Desmond she had no memory, only less than him, she hadn’t even known her own name, or how she died. Desmond had only guessed a horse had kicked her. As it was she was terrified of horses, including their horse. Unlike Altair neither Desmond nor Maria had to sleep so since she’d been woken she’d never seen someone sleep. All she knew was that Altair vanished for a few hours at night and then came back out when the sun started to rise. All she saw was Desmond, and Desmond didn’t sleep.

“He’s just sleeping,” Desmond said and tugged Altair’s coat more around him so he’d stay warm. It wasn’t a concern for him and Maria, but he didn’t want the man to get cold.

“What’s sleep?” Maria asked.

“It’s where you rest at night,” Desmond said. “Keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t fall over,” though he had placed Altair against the door. Maria nodded, “Good girl,” and he left the carriage, closed the door and climbed back up into the driver’s seat. His limbs already felt stiff as he flicked the reins to get the horse into motion again. Altair had told him the horse didn’t need to sleep, it was like him and Maria; undead. Desmond never would have known by looking at it though. The horse snorted and was a bit slow to start, no doubt its own limbs were stiff. Desmond flicked the reins again and it moved at a bit brisker pace.

—

When Altair woke they’d arrived at their destination. He yawned and stretched, his entire body sore as could be from falling asleep in such an uncomfortable position. Funny, he swore he’d fallen asleep on Desmond. Desmond must have moved him. He looked sleepily out the window and saw the baron’s estate sprawled out around them. Desmond was driving them down the little road that led them through the grounds to the manse itself.

“How are you feeling Maria?” Altair asked her, the little girl was just looking at him, unmoving.

“I’m cold,” she said.

“Ah, yes, you would be,” and he muttered his warming spell. A thought came to him. If Maria was as stiff as she was then Desmond was probably worse. What if he couldn’t move? He expanded the bubble of warmth with some difficulty. It was harder to warm the air around you because air was so… vacant. The further away you got from your body the harder it was to do. From the driver’s seat  he heard Desmond groan in delight and Altair smiled a bit.

Altair stuck his head out the window, “How you doing up there?”

“Much better now,” Desmond said.

“Good,” and Altair ducked back into the coach. “You excited to see your father, Maria?” he asked her. She nodded shyly. “Nervous?” she nodded again. “Don’t be. Your father will be happy to see you,” he gently tapped her nose.

The coach drew to a halt and he heard and felt Desmond get off the driver’s seat, the coach rocking a bit. He then opened the coach’s door, “We’ve arrived,” he said.

“Excellent,” and Altair got out, tugging on his coat once he was standing in the pebbled driveway. Desmond helped Maria down as Altair went to the door and knocked with the big, brass, knocker. A maid answered the door. “Hello, we’re here to see Robert,” Altair said.

She frowned, “The master wasn’t expecting guests,” she said, “I’ll tell him you’re here though,” and she opened the door. Desmond was carrying Maria, clearly she wasn’t warm enough yet, not unusual, children had a hard time retaining heat. “Can I say who’s calling?” she asked, not looking at Desmond or Maria.

“Tell him Corvo is here to see him about our appointment,” Altair said.

“I will, if you’d like to have a seat,” she motioned to where they could sit by a fire. Desmond put Maria closer to the fire so she could warm up. The maid was already gone.

“So how was last night?” Altair asked him.

“Cold without you,” Desmond said. “How did you do that? Could I learn to do that? It’d be so helpful if I could just warm myself up on command.”

Altair frowned in thought, he’d never thought of that. Could the undead learn magic? Technically Desmond was only held together with magic so it wasn’t like he didn’t have the resources to do so. “I don’t know,” Altair said truthfully, “We’ll have to find out,” he grinned.

They both looked up at the sound of quick steps and Robert showed up, breathless, looked at Altair and then at Maria who was staring at him with wide eyes. Maria got up and went over to Altair, confused and a bit scared. Altair didn’t blame her, Robert was a bit creepy looking and he had the strangest expression on his face, almost a mix of awe and disgust. “No sweetie, it’s okay,” he said gently.

“Who is that?” Maria asked Altair, holding onto his pant leg.

“My dear, that’s your father,” Altair said and laid a gentle hand on the small of her back. “Now don’t be shy,” he gently scooted her towards him. She looked back at him and Altair smiled kindly and gave her an encouraging wave. She walked slowly over to Robert.

Robert knelt and hugged her tightly to him. She looped her thin arms around his neck and Robert looked like he was nearly about to break down into tears. “If people saw this I think they’d be less likely to hate your kind so much,” Desmond said and Altair turned and looked at him.

“Excuse me?”

“People hate wizards and witches. But if they saw this, they might hate you a bit less,” Desmond smiled at little at Altair.

“Why doesn’t she remember me?” Robert asked, standing again, holding his daughter in his arms.

Altair stood as well, Robert still dwarfed him, “The process can only do so much. The mind is a very fragile and your daughter came to me in a terrible state. All of her memories were lost in reanimating her.”

“This is normal?” Robert asked and looked at his daughter.

“Yes,” Altair said and motioned, Desmond stood and came to stand next to him. Desmond squawked as Altair tugged open his high collar, “My assistant suffered a similar early fate as your daughter,” and Desmond seemed mortified Altair was showing the rope marks around his neck to the baron. “He remembers his name and his death, which given how he died is extremely fortunate,” he released Desmond’s collar and Desmond put it back the way it was self consciously. “The less damaged the brain is the more memory will be retained when woken, but your daughter suffered a serious blow to the head that caved her skull in. As it is it’s only because you came to me that she even has higher brain functions,” Robert held his daughter close, horrified.

“I see,” Robert said. “Wh-what do I need to know to care for her?”

“Keep her warm. The body stiffens in the cold. She is simply reanimated, but she’s still dead,” Robert swallowed. “She can eat but she doesn’t need to. Because she’s so young I was able to keep her on an aging path, so she will grow up though it will be at a much slower rate than before. She doesn’t need sleep but you can teach her to do so. She won’t get sick, she won’t bleed or be able to have children.”

“Why?”

“Because the dead cannot make life,” Altair said. “You can treat her just as you would any other little girl. She’s still your daughter, and she will learn. If you don’t tell her she’s young enough that she’ll forget she ever met me and won’t know what she is.”

“Can she die?” Robert asked.

“No,” Altair said. “She is soaked in magic, if she breaks a bone it can be set, if she gets kicked in the head again she will continue to walk around, to talk, to live. You can cut her up and while she won’t be able to move she’ll still be alive. The only one who can kill her for good is me or another necromancer. Do not allow her to get cut though, for as I said she won’t bleed and never take her to a doctor, for she has no pulse. Both are signs of dark magic and you’ll be tried for at the least consorting yourself with me.” Robert opened his mouth, “Don’t say you’d just blame me, you’ll never be able to find me, so save your breath.”

Robert took a moment to digest that, “I see,” he said slowly. “Will you stay a few days in case I have any questions? And to help settle her?”

“Certainly,” Altair said, he always loved being a guest in a noble’s house. “My assistant doesn’t need a room,” Desmond didn’t argue. “There is also a matter of my fee,” he added.

“Yes. Of course,” Robert said and looked at his little daughter again, “We’ll discuss it over breakfast?”

“A wonderful idea,” Altair smiled brightly.

“If you’d follow me Mr. Corvo,” Robert said and headed for a dining room. Altair beckoned and Desmond followed after, “I’ll also have someone get your horse,” he said.

“You’re too kind, sir,” Altair smiled, pleased with the turn of events.

—

“This is all way too much,” Desmond said as he followed Altair into the room he’d been given by the baron. Desmond just planned to sit in the corner and pretend to sleep while Altair did just that. They’d just had dinner, the baron Robert doing most of the talking that day after he and Altair had discussed his payment, which was an exorbitant amount of money in Desmond’s opinion. Though he supposed it was pennies to a baron.

Altair just grinned at him and shrugged off his outer coat, “Get used to it kid,” he said, “I have a lot of wealthy clients.”

“Do they all respond like this?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about the other times?” Altair handed Desmond his coat to hang up.

“They panic and start yelling about witches.”

“What do you do when they do that?”

“I put a curse on them, make them pay me and then kill who I just raised. Then, I leave.”

“Aren’t you ever scared they’ll tell?”

“The curse is that if they tell their heart will stop, even if they write it. I’ve never had problems with customers who are dissatisfied.”

“That seems sort of harsh.”

“It’s a harsh world. Now, come here,” he crooked his finger at Desmond as he sat in one of the chairs. Desmond sat opposite him. “We’re going to do an experiment.”

“Oh joy,” Desmond said dryly.

“We’re going to see if the undead can perform magic,” and now Desmond was listening. “We’ll do something easy,” Altair pulled out a coin, “ _Talgn_ ,” and the coin floated a few inches off his palm. Altair picked it out of the air. “Talgn,” he said again for Desmond to repeat.

“Tailgin-

“No no,” Altair waved his hand at him, “Talgn.”

Desmond frowned, “Talgin.”

“Almost. Talgn,” he repeated.

“Taljin… Talgen…” he tried a few more times, Altair repeating it for him to get it, “Talgn,” he finally said.

“Again.”

“Talgn,” Desmond said.

“Good,” Altair handed Desmond the coin. “Now, will it to rise, and say the word.”

“Do I have to?”

Altair looked at the coin, raised his brows, and the coin floated from his palm, it turned end over end and then gently dropped back onto Desmond’s palm. “With enough control you can do magic in silence and without moving. Both help though, especially if you’re just starting. Now. Talgn,” he said.

Desmond looked at the coin and tried to will it to rise, “Talgn,” he said, nothing happened, he looked at Altair but Altair didn’t move. He tried it a few more times. “I can’t.”

“You haven’t done anything. All you’ve done is said the word. You want that coin to float you’re going to have to want it to float. Early magic is about will, and your will overcoming the natural boundaries of the world. Magic changes things. Now, try again,” and Desmond tried as the candle burned lower and lower, but the coin didn’t even wiggle.

“This is hard,” Desmond sighed.

“No shit. It’s magic. It isn’t supposed to be easy. And we don’t even know if you can do magic.”

“How will you know?”

“It took me a day or so to move the coin the first time. You just need to practice,” and with a groan Altair got up, “You can practice tonight, but I am going to sleep,” he patted Desmond’s shoulder as he walked behind the changing screen.

“Sorry I kept you up,” Desmond said.

“Nonsense,” Altair said, “More interesting than Robert at any rate,” Desmond heard him undressing, “Bank the fire,” he said and Desmond got up. Altair hadn’t used the compulsion on him after the first day or so, Desmond had just decided it wasn’t worth fighting against him. He left the coin on the table and went to the fire.

“Altair,” Desmond said as he banked the flame.

“Yes?”

“What does  _talgn_  mean?”

“It’s a form of  _talsa_ , which means ‘to rise’,  _talgn_  means ‘you rise’.”

“So I could make myself rise?”

“Yes. If you wanted to make yourself float it would be  _talgar_ , ‘I rise’. But don’t worry about that now. Worry about making the coin  _talem_ ,” and Desmond chuckled as Altair came out from behind the screen in just a pair of soft pants, not a more traditional sleeping gown. “Try not to be too loud with your practicing. I do want to get some sleep.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Desmond promised. “Altair,” he said as Altair got into bed, Altair ‘hmmed’, “Who taught you magic?”

“My grandfather. Bastard of a man and I’m glad he’s dead. Now, focus on your coin, I’m going to sleep,” and Altair promptly lay down and with a wave of his hand all the candles except the one by the chairs were snuffed out. Desmond sat back in his chair and looked at the coin, it was going to be a long night.

“Talgn,” he said softly, the coin didn’t move. He practiced long into the night, wanting the coin to move, but his thoughts slowed, it became harder to think, he felt cold. Altair had a boiler in his basement to heat the house if he grew too cold and Desmond could go down there if he felt cold. There was nothing like that here. He blinked at the coin slowly, every inch of his body felt slow and heavy. He groaned and made himself get up, dropping the coin and went over to the fire which had died down considerably now.

The fire did little to warm him but he started when suddenly the fire roared from nothing. He turned around and saw Altair in bed, having pushed himself up to a reclining position, his hand out in front of him. “Cold?” he asked. Desmond nodded. “Come here,” and honestly he didn’t need to use the compulsion on Desmond. Desmond got up and went over to Altair. “You move the coin?” Altair asked, blinked at him tiredly.

“No.”

“Too bad,” Altair moved over in bed, “It’s warm in here,” he said and rolled onto his side. It was Desmond’s only invitation. After a moment he took it, taking off his coat and shoes and belt and getting into the bed. It was warm and the heat of the fire made it even warmer. The bed was soft and Desmond forgot what it was like to lay in bed, he hadn’t in almost a month since he’d been brought back from the dead. The time it had taken Altair to redo the ritual to raise Maria.

Altair went back to sleep, Desmond looked up at the ceiling, not feeling tired. He had no need to sleep. The dead didn’t sleep. Instead he was lay there and eventually just closed his eyes to feign sleep. The fire died down over time, but it remained warm under the covers, Altair’s body radiating heat like a furnace.

As a gray dawn started to appear in the sky Desmond sat up and looked down at the sleeping necromancer. He slept… well, like the dead honestly. Sitting there in just his thin sleeves Desmond started to feel cold again, as it was always coldest just before dawn. Desmond got back under the covers but under the blankets it was considerably less warm now since he’d let so much cold in and the fire was now just little embers. Altair was the only real warm part of the room. Desmond turned his head and looked at him, sleeping so easily, and then with some hesitation Desmond reached out to pressed his cool hand against Altair’s hot bck. Altair’s shoulders rolled at the contact but he didn’t wake. Instead, to Desmond’s surprise Altair rolled over put his arm under arrest, holding it close against his naked chest.

Really what was the worst that could happen? He’d die? That had happened already, he could weather death a second time. He tried to be fearless about it but Desmond really wasn’t a brave man but he still did it and wrapped his other arm around Altair’s warm form to soak up his heat. He sighed in content to be warm again and Desmond smiled a little when Altair snuggled against him.

He extracted himself from Altair before the necromancer woke in the morning.

—

Maria didn’t want to eat. Altair didn’t blame her. The undead didn’t need to eat and most found food rather bland if not totally tasteless. Maria didn’t want to eat the ‘gross stuff’, which Robert was having none of.

“Why won’t she eat?” Robert asked Altair. It was their second day here and Altair had woken up cold and irritable.

“I told you. The undead don’t eat,” he said crankily.

“But you said she could.”

Altair sighed and looked at Maria,  _“Maria, eat your food_ ,” he ordered. She looked at him and scowled, clearly wanting to resist but unable to. She ate. “There, she’s eating.”

“How did you do that?”

“Magic,” Altair made a hand motion to imply mysticism. Altair, unlike Maria, had no problem eating and ate his breakfast without faltering. Desmond sat across from him, his hands in his lap, waiting for breakfast to be over. Desmond looked flushed with warmth, his color looking nearly normal in hue instead of pasty like it got when he got too cold. Maria was starting to look that hue. “Also, I told you to keep her warm,” he nearly scolded Robert.

“We have been,” Robert said.

“Human temperature,” she should be flesh colored, not pale. Keep the fire going in her room when she goes to sleep and keep her inside in this weather. If she gets too cold she won’t be able to move quickly, or at all.”

“I’ll tell the staff,” Robert said.

“Good,” Altair said moodily and went back to his breakfast. They finished their breakfast and Altair said he was going back to sleep, he wasn’t feeling very well, he hadn’t slept well. Desmond followed after him. “Not now Desmond, I’m tired,” Altair sighed when he got to the door.

“Wait,” Desmond said and held out his hand, “ _talgn_ ,” he said and Altair watched the coin he held in his fingers break free and rise a few inches into the air.

“My,” Altair said, now a bit more awake and interested, “You practiced last night?”

“Yeah, though I couldn’t make it float last night. I tried this morning and… it worked,” Desmond smiled widely.

Altair gave him a look, “Well, we’ve found something out at least, the undead can perform magic.”

“I want to do more,” Desmond said, sounding ravenous to do more.

Altair sighed, he was tired and wanted to go to sleep, “ _Noyyos_ ,” Altair said and a little ball of light appeared between them and while it burned brightly, “ _soyum_ ,” and the light went out.

“Noyyos,” Desmond repeated, “and soyum.”

“Yes,” Altair yawned. “Now, nap for me.”

“Sleep well,” Desmond said, smiling at him. Altair bobbed his head and went into his room to find some rest.

—

It was snowing when Altair and Desmond made their leave. Desmond felt horribly stiff as he stood outside with the horse who looked miserable, legs rigid and like it wasn’t to go back into the warm stable. Altair wanted to leave though and when the necromancer said they were leaving that was it; they were leaving. Desmond didn’t particularly blame him, he felt awkward in the baron’s mansion. He wanted to go home too. It was the only home Desmond knew really, Altair’s house at the end of a lane with the porch out front. He had no memory of any other house or any other home.

Altair came out of the mansion, Robert behind him, layered in warm clothes. They shook hands and shared a few words and then Altair headed for the carriage. Maria was inside, sitting by a fire to keep her warm in the cold morning. “I don’t know who’s a sorrier sight,” Altair said as he came up to him and the horse, “You or Shaun there,” he nodded at the horse. Desmond looked at the horse who flicked his ears at Desmond and snorted miserably.

“Cold,” Desmond said, shivering.

“Yes it is,” Altair said and went up to Shaun’s harness and put his hands on it, “ _Galera negn merroarow_ ,” the harness glowed briefly and then went dark again. “He’ll be fine now.” And what about him? He opened the door of the carriage for Altair who got in but his hand stopped Desmond from closing it. “Get in,” he said.

“Then who will drive?”

“I’m a damn wizard Desmond, the carriage will drive itself, now get in,” and with a slight frown Desmond climbed into the carriage, “Over here,” he patted the seat next to him. Desmond sat. Next to him Altair made a brief motion with his hand and the carriage started forward, “You’ll only have to drive when we get closer to the city,” he said.

“Okay,” Desmond said and to his surprise warmth suddenly blossomed around them, “Oh.”

“It’s harder to warm air further away,” Altair sighed and sat back, he seemed tired again this morning.

“You feeling alright?” Desmond asked him. Like the night he’d tried to lift the coin Desmond had slept with Altair, wrapped around him, though leaving before he woke.

“Fine,” Altair rubbed his brow, “just tired. I woke up freezing. I think that damn room had a draft,” and Desmond felt bad. He’d leeched all the warmth from Altair the past two nights. He couldn’t help it, Altair was hot as fire in the cold room. He moved a bit closer to Altair in the carriage, to get closer  to the source of warmth. He smiled a little when Altair nodded off around mid morning, slumped against Desmond and he tried to make him comfortable as their horse followed the road back to the city. Altair woke to eat the food the baron’s staff had packed them and talked to Desmond while they rode.

When dark came Altair slept again and Desmond felt bad to wanting to just wrap his limbs around him and suck in his heat. But the night was cold, though thankfully it had stopped snowing. He frowned when the carriage suddenly came to a stop. What? He got up and Altair woke a bit as Desmond looked out the window. A man had stopped their horse, holding his bridle.

“Yeah see, I told you. No driver,” they were telling someone Desmond couldn’t see.

“Must have fallen off somewhere. Poor idiot,” someone else said. “Wonder if anyone’s inside.”

“Not that it matters,” a third person said and they laughed.

“What’s going on?” Altair asked, rubbing his eyes, picking  himself up off the bench where he’d slowly fallen onto when Desmond had moved from his side.

“Highwaymen,” Desmond swallowed.

“Damn it all,” Altair opened the coach door, “Hey!” he called and got out of the carriage. Desmond followed slowly. “Get away from my horse.”

“Your horse?” one of the bandits asked? He had something that passed for a beard and a large nose. The one by the horse held a lantern. “Looks like our horse now.”

“You really don’t want to do that,” Altair said. “And you really don’t want to mess with me, or my horse.”

The highwayman came up to him fearlessly, “You and what army?” he asked.

Altair reached out and the man stepped back but Altair leaned forward, extending one finger and touching it to the highwayman’s chest. The man’s eyes instantly rolled up into the back of his head and he fell backwards into the snow. “I don’t need an army,” Altair said and then gasped and Desmond finally looked away from where he’d been at the younger man holding the horse and the lantern. He’d forgotten about the third man who’d come up behind them and pushed his sword through Altair’s chest. Altair looked down at the steel sticking out of his chest and then it was pulled out. Altair fell to his knees and then his side.

“You wanna be next?” the highwayman asked.

Desmond stared at him a moment and then felt a rage he didn’t know he possessed take him. He grabbed the man around the throat with both hands and started to squeeze. The bandit cried out and stabbed Desmond through the chest. It hurt like hell but Desmond didn’t falter. He stabbed Desmond again and the younger one came over with a dagger to help. “You better think twice before trying to attack a wizard and a dead man on the road,” Desmond growled and tightened his grip on the man’s throat. He clawed at Desmond’s fingers and the younger bandit kept trying to hurt him, repeatedly stabbing him in the back, Desmond didn’t even notice.

He let the first bandit go once he was dead and he fell crumpled into the snow, the finger marks around his throat similar to the rope around Desmond’s and turned to the younger one, grabbed the dagger out of his clumsy hands and shoved it through the bottom of his jaw. The bandit’s blue eyes rolled and he fell to the side in a heap.

Desmond stood in the snow, panting and felt adrenaline running through his body. Then he lurched, his movements almost comically slow and jerky in the snow and fell to his knees next to Altair. “Altair,” he grabbed the necromancer up into his arms. Altair groaned, he wasn’t dead yet. “Altair,” he shook the man a little.

“They stabbed me,” Altair said in a raspy voice, looking down at his chest, “Shit.”

“Can you heal yourself?”

Altair looked up at Desmond, “Necromancers can’t heal,” he swallowed and Desmond placed his hand on Altair’s chest where he’d been hurt and bleeding freely. “God it hurts,” he groaned, “I forgot what pain felt like.”

“What can I do?” Desmond asked, squeezing Altair’s shoulder.

Altair was breathing heavy and looked up at him, “Heal me,” he said, voice thin.

“What? How?”

Altair gasped a breath, he didn’t have much longer it was clear. “Abergn das hever-deen,” he had to stop and breathe. Desmond repeated it back perfectly. “Mula cachalar,” he groaned a little, “fuck,” he hissed and pressed his hand to his chest.

“Is that it?” Desmond asked.

Altair shook his head and Desmond just held him close, not knowing what else to do but that, “Mula cachalar neverrnatalnrrgn.”

“Nevernait-

“Neverrnatalnrrgn.”

“Neverrnatalnrrgn,” Desmond repeated.

“Do it,” Altair groaned.

“Abergn das hever-deen mula cachalar neverrnatalnrrgn,” Desmond said.

“Yes. Now please,” Altair looked up at Desmond with terrified eyes.

“This will heal you?”

Altair choked on a laugh, “No.”

“Then what does it do!” Desmond cried.

“It’ll keep me in this state,” he panted, “until you’re strong enough and,” he groaned, Desmond hated seeing him like this, “and capable enough to heal me. There are books, back home, that can help you. Now please, I can’t,” it was nearly a sob. Desmond tried, nothing happened. “Desmond,” Altair said, his voice laced with pain, “the world wants me to die. Magic is about will. Do you want me to live?”

“Yes,” Desmond said softly and pressed his forehead to Altair’s. “I don’t want you to die.”

“Then tell the world to fuck off. Tell it I will live,” Altair’s breath was shallow and quick.

Desmond looked down at the dying necromancer, who was in so much pain. Desmond wanted to take that pain away. In whatever state that spell would do there would be no pain. More than Desmond wanted Altair to live he just wanted to take away that pain. “ _Abergn das hever-deen mula cachalar neverrnatalnrrgn_ ,” he said.

Altair sighed, “That’s it,” he smiled a little, “Good boy,” and then he went still. Desmond stared at him and quickly checked his pulse. For a long moment he thought it hadn’t worked, then Altair closed his eyes on his own and he felt the slow beat of his heart. It had slowed Altair’s body down. That had to be a good thing.

Desmond looked behind him, the horse and carriage was still there, thankfully. With a grunt he picked Altair up from the snow and took him to the carriage and laid him down on the bench gently. Blood soaked the seat instantly. Desmond looked down at him. He needed to go home and figure out what to do, but he was frozen. Altair looked like he was sleeping but every now and then he saw Altair’s chest rise, he was alive, but it seemed like barely. He leaned down and pressed his cold lips against Altair’s brow before leaving the carriage and got into the driver’s seat.

“Get a move on, Shaun,” he cracked the reigns and the horse started off at a plod, he cracked them again and he picked up speed. Desmond didn’t age, he didn’t have to eat, didn’t have to sleep. He would go home, find the books Altair was talking about, reteach himself how to read and fix him. He wouldn’t rest until he did, until Altair was healed and awake and Desmond could press his cool hand against Altair’s hot cheek.


End file.
